


with god as my witness

by meowcosm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Confessional Sex, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Hair-pulling, M/M, Oral Sex, Religion Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowcosm/pseuds/meowcosm
Summary: Linhardt offers his praise to the Archbishop.For Kinktober 2020.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49
Collections: kinktober 2020





	with god as my witness

**Author's Note:**

> i am really horny for religious fucking and i am really horny for byhardt, and here is the conclusion of that!

If he were not in love, Linhardt would not tolerate half of the things he tolerates for Byleth. Kneeling- on a stone floor, no less- for one. Or waking up early to attend Church functions, and not dipping away to nap the latter half away, lest anyone request his presence. Keeping their living space clean, not spending the entire night in the Monastery’s library, remembering to drink contraceptive tea consistently- all much more effort than he’d like to be putting into anything, let alone things he doesn’t enjoy. 

But he enjoys Byleth. More than anything else- and the feeling is mutual. So he obliges him, for the most part, sometimes twisting things in his favour- but always holding to the spirit of the request. 

Kneeling is one of his least miserable duties. It is not something he has ever been made to do out of fealty, of course- over the course of their marriage, Linhardt has learned in no ambiguous terms that Byleth desires no _fealty_. Rather, he takes his dues in good intentions and worshipful actions. The vast majority of which, of course, are directed away from him, and towards the wider good. 

Linhardt is the exception. He claims that title with pride- for while others might heal the ill or quench raging fires, it is his duty to pleasure the archbishop, ensuring his amity and his goodwill towards the nations of Fodlan. He does so even if he must kneel, knees covered only by the thin gossamer of a green chantry-robe, between the Archbishop’s thighs, parting them with a tongue buried eagerly in the pit of his warmth. 

Byleth’s hands bury themselves eagerly amongst Linhardt’s silken hair, as clean and well-groomed as it always is- he expects no less of his husband, whose small sacrifices are made in gentle effort. Wrapped around the moss-green thatch, he pulls Linhardt closer, hips adjusting so his tongue slips easily into his wet, eager hole. No sound can pass either of their lips, but Byleth demonstrates his enthusiasm with a series of short, sharp tugs to Linhardt’s scalp, his face pressed deep between Byleth’s trembling, shaking thighs. 

Light shines through the intricate wood-carvings on the side of the confession booth; dappling Linhardt’s arched back with light tinted rainbow by the stained glass affectations on the cathedral walls. Unsure of where to land his gaze, all senses disturbed by the surprising deftness of Linhardt’s tongue (and his uncharacteristic effort), Byleth focuses on how the shards dance, gentle, across him, no doubt carrying flecks of saintly visage in their flickering colours. 

It’s all he can do to not be consumed by the fluttering, body-shaking sensations filling his stomach from below. Linhardt’s palms are wrapped around his ankles for balance, but it’s clear where all of his energy is going- Byleth knows he’s amongst the privileged few to see Linhardt really put effort into something, and yet the movement of Linhardt’s tongue across his cunt still shocks him worse than the most powerful of lightning spells. His tenacity is hardly anything against the way Linhardt resurfaces every so often to strum his clit between his teeth, prying past the tender hood with nothing but persistence and _experience_ , the memories of the many decades they’ve spent doing this, immaculate together, tucked in the confession booth, away from the world.

Linhardt flicks his tongue inside of Byleth, and he lets out a muffled whine, barely constraining his voice. There’s no service, but people flock to the cathedral as often as they seek guidance from the Goddess and her emissaries- often, as even peacetime does not stem life’s conflicts. Such presence forces them into silence- one perhaps as sacred and contemplative as that of the cathedral’s guests. None of which stops Linhardt from making his best efforts at working sharp cries from Byleth’s throat, peaking wonderfully when he brushes against the tenderest part of Byleth’s inner walls, moving faster only when the feeling of Byleth’s blood pumping underneath his hands grows more subtle, slowing down when it begins to race once more. 

He’s in no rush- they have all the time in the world to be this way, conjoined and wrapped in the Goddess’ most pleasurable gifts. Even the kneeling feels better when Linhardt reimagines it as veneration; all of the praise he can summon from his lungs directed to the man who has guided him, who has bore his children and given his body to the people of Fodlan- 

The swelling of his cock beneath his robe adds, perhaps, some urgency to the matter. He wouldn’t dare please himself without permission, however- frankly, Linhardt isn’t sure he wants to. As with everything, for Byleth to deign him with indulgences makes his sins so much _sweeter_. Even now, he is unsure as to when he first desired obedience, kneeling beneath the archbishop like this- his earliest fantasies, as he remembers them, were hardly ever this vivid, this wanting. 

Tasting Byleth, his salt and tang unlike anything he’s found elsewhere on the earth he’s lived on for longer than he ever imagined doing so- Linhardt can’t imagine a time he lived without it. He’d have done it sooner if he’d known earlier just how wonderful it could feel, taking such tender care of his _favourite_ subject of study. 

Byleth’s hips move outside of his control as Linhardt slides in deeper, no longer resurfacing to lap teasingly at the tender folds of his cunt. His hole filled with the shifting pressure, clit swollen and throbbing, length resting against the neat bridge of Linhardt’s nose- it is _sudden_ , and _much_ , and _aching_ , to the point that Byleth bites down on his knuckles in an attempt to repress the moans of faux-anguish which would no doubt be streaming from him were they _anywhere_ more private than where they are; a single wooden wall separating them from the masses worshipping the goddess that once found her home inside of him.

It works; for the most part. Linhardt picks up the barely-audible gasps, at least, takes them and places them inside of him as sheer motivation to further his feverish, tender embrace. Byleth pulls his hair again, and Linhardt bites his bottom lip so suddenly that it’s a wonder that there’s no blood drawn by the time he gains control of himself- though there’s a streak of precome sliding down the inside of his thigh, no doubt staining the interior leg of his robes. 

Linhardt doesn’t let himself sigh about it- it’ll hardly be the first time he’s walked back to his study from the cathedral with his legs crossed, desperately holding in Byleth’s ‘come’. Rather, he refocuses his attention on Byleth’s hole- slicker by the second, not solely with clear trails of saliva, either- prying his legs further apart for better access when he decides, apropos of nothing, that it’s time for him to work at the place that makes Byleth _sing_ for him. 

Linhardt approaches it slowly, carefully, at least at first. He’s familiar with the consequences of going too hard, or too fast, and has no desire to experience them again. But Byleth is much too wet, much too willing, for him to restrain himself for long- he tastes wonderfully ripe, and his straining against the walls of his own self-restraint only makes him _cuter_ in Linhardt’s eyes. His patience slowly fades- though his precision remains- and he begins to _feast_ , singing silent songs of gratefulness to Byleth in his mind for the wonder that’s laid in front of him. 

Byleth gasps, only to bite his tongue, as his climax begins around Linhardt’s tongue- and Linhardt can’t help but embrace the feeling of his beloved contracting around his embrace, his holy intimacy wet and shaking and _wonderful_ \- Linhardt only barely holds himself back from his own orgasm, willing his eager cock not to spend before Byleth can watch, partaking eager as always in the sight. 

Somehow, both are quiet throughout. When Linhardt pulls out, face stained and slick with Byleth’s fluids, he tempers his ragged breathing, lest he give them both away- rather, he fixes a sheepish gaze on Byleth’s eyes, as still as if he’d never finished at all.

A familiar smile approves his prayers; promising more to come. 

**Author's Note:**

> @meowcosm on twitter for More Byhardt, or just horny garbage
> 
> hope you enjoyed!!


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